


Doctors Without Borders

by BootsnBlossoms



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Tickle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sometimes I need things,” the Doctor said, tucking himself closer to John. “Sometimes it’s a good cup of tea, to heal the synapses. Sometimes its a good friend, a companion, to heal the loneliness. Sometimes it’s a lover, to heal the hearts.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctors Without Borders

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kryptaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/gifts).



> For a prompt asking for a story to go with [this photoset](http://drandmrsjohnwatson.tumblr.com/post/36919644956/valeria2067-roane72-is-he-wearing-tens%20): "Just how did John end up wearing Ten’s suit anyway? ;)"
> 
> Huge major snuggly thanks to [CousinCecily](http://cousincecily.tumblr.com/) for being a wonderful beta, even letting me distract her from other, better porn:D

John sat back on the riverbank, wincing a bit as the noxious fumes from his cigarette filled his lungs. The unfamiliar flavour only proved that the cigarettes here were filled with more local grasses than tobacco. He flicked the ashes into the Congo River and leaned back, tipping his head up towards the cloudless sky and the relentless sun, letting the inescapable burn sear away all other sensation and thought.  
  
He squished his toes in the mud and waited for his courier. It hadn’t taken long for him to settle into the scheme of things here. Having nothing to live for and nothing left to lose made the transition surprisingly easy. John had practically been a blank slate after Sherlock’s death, and it took only an idle remark from his sister when they were both drinking to set him on the right path.  
  
 _“It’s too bad your French is so horrible,” Harriet had slurred, pouring her brother another finger of whiskey. “My friend Areta, you know, the really hot girl from Nigeria, the anesthesiologist? She said they desperately need French speakers in that little hippy organization of hers.”_  
  
 _John had downed the amber liquid in one gulp, belched, and struggled to make the connection. “What, Doctors Without Borders?” He grinned, and Harriet frowned in response. “One of the ways I used to divert Sherlock when he was bored was to make him work with me on my languages. His mother was French. I speak it like a bloody courtesan now.” At that, he’d laughed and laughed and laughed while his sister looked on in horror._  
  
The Democratic Republic of the Congo, at least what John had seen of it so far in his year here, was actually not nearly as terrible as the media made it out to be. His initial group of fellow newcomers were a pleasant crowd, mostly comprised of eager and freshly minted wanna-change-the-world types as well as fellow drifters like himself who had nothing to their names but a rucksack and haunted eyes. John didn’t waste time with encouragement of the former group or commiseration with the latter – he just went about his business and waited for what he knew would be a solitary assignment.  
  
And here he was. He did occasionally treat child soldiers and children swollen from starvation, but most of the time it was a lot more run-of-the-mill. People were people no matter where he went, and minor infections and viruses ruled most days.  
  
“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” came a very British voice from behind him. John didn’t startle, didn’t turn, didn’t reach for the gun he didn’t carry anymore. If this was one of Moriarty’s assassins come to claim him, he knew it was already too late. Why bother with a struggle?  
  
“If you can live with the bugs, it’s quite lovely.”  
  
The stranger chuckled. “Ah yes, the great teeming masses of Earth’s tiniest winged lifeforms. You know, they won’t be around forever. If you think about it that way, makes them slightly more magical. Perhaps even bearable.”  
  
John swatted at his shoulder. “Perhaps. Though I dare say the whole ecosystem would crash without the tiny beasties, though I suppose in that light all life forms would take on extra importance.”  
  
“Would you like to see?”  
  
At this, John finally turned to look at the newcomer. Spiky auburn hair, nerdy glasses, brown suit with blue pinstripes, blue collared shirt, and (perhaps most absurdly of all) white converse shoes. John tried to find it within himself to be surprised, alarmed, annoyed... any flicker of emotion would have been quite welcome. But there was nothing. He sighed. “I’m sorry. See what exactly?”  
  
“An Earth without mosquitos. And, coincidentally, an ecosystem that still manages to thrive – in case you were wondering.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“You, me, the stars? A romp through space and time? I’ll have you back by sundown, I promise.” The stranger settled next him on the ground, all nervous energy and sharp angles.  
  
“Well, there is no denying I’m attracted to madness.” _What am I doing?_ “But, for argument’s sake, let’s say we really could. Why would you want to take me?”  
  
The man stared at him for a few moments, but in a sad way rather than an uncomfortably searching one. Then, finally managing to shock John, the man tipped his head onto John’s shoulder. The spiky hair brushed against John’s cheek.  
  
“I know a little something about you, Dr. Watson. About what’s happened, and why you’re here.” At that, John took a deep breath. The man continued, head resting on John’s shoulder, still staring at the hot river. “You’re actually quite famous in time. Your stories are much beloved; you and your friend are quite idolized. Through your own words I know about what’s going through your head, sitting on this river bank in the heat. That’s how I know that right now you need me as much as I need you.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“You lost someone. Your companion. The person who made you whole, less alone, made you feel like you could belong rather than just drift aimlessly about.”  
  
John waited for the anger to overwhelm him. For the depression to grey out the sun. For the self-loathing to grip his heart in its iron first. But a year away from the name of Sherlock – and indeed, any sort of emotion at all – had taken its toll. He was rusty at the business of feeling. Quite possibly permanently damaged. The man continued. “So did I. Her name was Rose.”  
  
“How?” he asked the madman at his side.  
  
“It’s quite complicated, but she had to go to a place where I can never see her again.”  
  
John swallowed. “I’m sorry about Rose. But what I meant is, how is it possible?”  
  
“Shall I show you?”  
  
John finished his cigarette, stood, and pulled the madman up with him. “Back by sunset, you said?”  
  
~~*~~  
  
It turned out that the madman, Mister ‘the Doctor’ John Smith, wasn’t mad after all. John spent the next several hours (or so it felt to him) galavanting across the stars. He saw an Earth-that-was (several million years before his time) when the insect population was truly magnificent – huge and lazy and bearing the translucent wings of angels. Then they moved forward in time to an Earth-yet-to-come, in which the most annoying of the insect population had been scrubbed from existence and replaced with moving nano-protein devices which managed to keep the animal population that was dependant on them still thriving.  
  
It was all overwhelming and gorgeous.  
  
Of course, Mister ‘the Doctor’ John Smith’s blue box was something of a marvel itself, but John couldn’t bring himself to be in awe of the metal and lights and the staggering inside-outside size difference as much as the wonders of the universe. He stood at the door of the TARDIS, staring out into space, breathing, alive, and marvelled.  
  
He heard the time traveler come up behind him. “What do I call you? Not Doctor, because that’s us both. Not John, because that’s us both too. Smith?”  
  
“I actually do have rather a lot of names. Theta Sigma. Walters. Claudius. Muldwych. Bowman. I was even Spartacus for a brief period.”  
  
John tilted his head, watching the dying star they had come here to witness fade. “Spartacus. Sparky. I like that. Suits you very well.”  
  
The Doctor laughed. “It does suit me, doesn’t it? And you haven’t even seen my screwdriver yet.”  
  
The light of the dying star finally went out, and for the first time in a year, John felt... something. The Doctor was pressed up behind him, watching the baby black hole come into existence. Slowly, John turned. It was so refreshing, having a man who didn't shy away from physical contact crowd him not just like it was normal, but expected.  
  
The Doctor smiled as John leaned in, and let himself be kissed.  
  
He pulled in the other Doctor’s lower lip, nipping and sucking it into his mouth before delving further, gently twisting tongues and pressing noses. He felt the Doctor’s hands push up under his worn t-shirt, not to grip or scratch, but simple to feel. He sighed into the other man’s mouth and pushed himself into a full body embrace, wrapping his arms around the time traveler’s ridiculously thin waist, holding him close.  
  
John pulled back, brushed his lips against the Doctor’s, then pressed his forehead against his. “Is this OK?”  
  
“Sometimes I need things,” the Doctor said, tucking himself closer to John. “Sometimes it’s a good cup of tea, to heal the synapses. Sometimes its a good friend, a companion, to heal the loneliness. Sometimes, it’s a lover, to heal the hearts.”  
  
John slid his hands up to unbutton and push off the jacket, and the waistcoat and shirt followed quickly. He splayed his hands over the Doctor’s ribs, tracing upwards. The Doctor threw his head back and moaned as John’s fingertips came into contact with his nipples, but John’s touch didn’t linger. He reached down to slip his hands into the Doctor’s waistband, pressing the pads of his fingers lightly against the Doctor’s hips as he pressed his lips to his sternum, delighting in the half-choked moan it drew from the wiry man. He slowly started unbuttoning and unzipping, occasionally brushing his knuckles against the hardness that rested underneath.  
  
John quietly shuffled the pile of clothes together into a tidy heap and slid down onto it, falling to his knees as he pulled down the Doctor’s trousers. The man barely had a chance to whisper John’s name before being taken into John’s mouth. It wasn’t hard or fast, though – it was slow. Sensual. The unbearably gentle oral caressing of a very sensitive organ, causing the Doctor to gasp and moan but not lose control. John felt the time traveler’s hands in his hair, gripping without forcing, and John smiled around his cock. He groaned in pleasure, reaching down to free himself from his own tight jeans.  
  
Several minutes later the Doctor cried out in absolute ecstasy, pushing his hips forward, trembling with the force of his pleasure. But he pushed John away before he could actually come – apparently the self-control one learned from being over 900 years old helped to make up for being very rarely sexually active. John found himself being pushed backwards and braced himself for a fall against the cold metal, but it didn’t come. Instead he felt a pair of doors give way behind him, and he landed with a thump onto what felt like a soft bed. Except, of course, that he was pretty sure that there hadn’t been any doors there before.  
  
Then the Doctor was crawling on top of him, trying desperately to undo all the buttons he could reach. “Bollocks!” he shouted in frustration. “I’m used to pressing buttons, not undoing them!”  
  
The bed, the buttons, the whole spectacular, ridiculous day... John couldn’t help himself. He tried to suppress it as the Doctor finally tore his jeans off and began kissing his hip, but it just couldn’t be stopped. It started as a chuckle, then as the Doctor looked up at him with good-natured bewilderment it expanded into a full-bodied laugh. “It’s just, I’m sorry! But I just...” John couldn’t catch his breath but for laughing, and much to his relief the Doctor joined in.  
  
“I agree, John, I really do. This is all much too ridiculous to be taken so seriously.” He yanked off John’s shirt, then bent to run his hands under John’s knees, which (as the Doctor had probably already suspected) were incredibly ticklish. John gasped with the effort of his laughter, and he decided he had enough on the bottom, thankyouverymuch. So he kicked away the last of his clothes, rolled the Doctor over, and pinned him with his heavier frame.  
  
“Now, now, that wasn’t fair at all, was it?” He ground his arse down against the Doctor’s still very hard cock, then bent to pull his arms over his head. He held tight with one hand, then ran the other lightly across the Doctor’s armpit. The Doctor’s laughter was high pitched and surprised, and even as his hips bucked up in an attempt to dislodge his attacker, he wrapped his legs around John’s waist to prove that he didn’t mean it. He did, however, roll them over – but the advantage didn’t last long. John lay flat on his back and slid down so his head was positioned under the man’s groin, briefly licking and sucking at the tip. But then, he quickly turned his head and blew a raspberry into the dip under the Doctor’s hipbone. He decided that the responding shriek of laughter was one of the best sounds he’d ever heard.  
  
John didn’t know how long they spent like that, wrestling for dominance, searching one another for ticklish spots and stopping occasionally for deep kisses and quick bouts of rubbing their skin and cocks together when they found erogenous zones rather than ticklish ones. His whole body felt alive in a way it hadn’t in a very long time, both painfully turned on and delightfully exhausted.  
  
Now he was kneeling, head pressed against the headboard, as the Doctor sat behind him and experimented with the effects of varying pressure along his back and sides using his lips. In between the ribs just right and John would chuckle. Just under the shoulder blade there, and John’s cock would give a violent twitch as he arched into the touch. The Doctor was explaining all about the locations of tentacles on various alien species’ bodies, and – god help him – it was very arousing.  
  
Finally, John decided he’d had his fill; they’d played long enough and he just... _needed_. He twisted, pushed the Doctor down, and leaned over to pull him into a deep, passionate, and dirty kiss. The time traveler’s arms immediately wrapped around his shoulders and he spread his legs in anticipation, knees wantonly falling to the sides.  
  
But John knew what they both needed and so one last time he pulled the Doctor on top of him as he lay on his back. The Doctor was only momentarily surprised before he started preparing him – and jesus fuck did that sonic screwdriver really come in handy. Soon John’s back was arching as the Doctor pushed into him slowly and carefully, all the former humor in his eyes replaced with desperation. John moaned and pulled the Doctor’s hips down more, pulling him as close as he could.  
  
“Oh god, John, my John. John Watson how I’ve waited for you.” The Doctor pulled out and thrust back in, this time not gently at all, his eyes bright sparks of want and need.  
  
John wrapped his hands around the Doctor’s upper arms, feeling the musculature underneath ripple and shift in rhythm with his deep movements. They moved together slowly at first in nearly perfect sync. Even at the languid pace, though, it didn’t take long for John to reach the very edge of his orgasm, and he hoped desperately that he would be able to hold himself off long enough to have them come together.  
  
After what seemed like hours (and who knew when you were fucking on an impossible bed inside an impossible machine), John could tell the Doctor was getting close. He refused to break eye contact with John underneath him, and he was making the most delightful moaning sounds. John arched his back, wrapped his legs tightly around the other man’s waist, moved his hands to grip Doctor’s arse to pull him in deeper, and whispered “Oh god, yes.”  
  
Two more thrusts and the Doctor screamed in exquisite ecstasy, shuddering and gasping and pulsing deep inside John.  Before he had even fully finished, he firmly grasped John’s cock, which had been resting stiffly on his belly between them, and gave him several firm pulls.  Between that perfect touch and the magic of watching the Doctor lose himself in pleasure, John was soon crying out and trembling in pleasure as well.  They pressed themselves impossibly closer together, and John found himself wondering if, in this new realm of magical science, there was some way bodies could get stuck like this – fused in orgasmic bliss.  
  
But they soon came down from it, as human bodies inevitably must, and John pushed and pulled until they were pressed together under a fluffy white blanket that smelled mysteriously of store-brand laundry softener.  
  
“This wasn’t here before, was it?”  
  
The Doctor yawned and wrapped his arms around John. “Only when I need it to be.”  
  
John chuckled one more time before falling into a very deep and relaxing sleep.  
  
~~*~~  
  
As it turned out, John’s clothes really hadn’t survived the Doctor’s button attack. He ended up “borrowing” (keeping) the Doctor’s suit, though it was a little tight in the shoulders and the waist.  
  
He was wearing it when, several months later, the Doctor dropped him off back in Congo – just before sunset (on the same day as he’d left) as he’d promised. John watched him walk back to the TARDIS without remorse or regret. “Bye Sparky! It was fun.”  
  
The Doctor grinned back at him and was gone.  
  
Another year and a half later, when John took the newly resurrected and recently forgiven Sherlock out for a celebratory dinner, he could only laugh and smile when Sherlock asked him where he’d gotten that oddly fitting suit.  
  
Truth was, he’d never let on. Sherlock would start thinking him the madman, otherwise.  
  
And though he never saw the Doctor again (and he still sometimes dreamed of dying stars and massive insects even during quiet nights spent wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s body) he never regretted his brief time on the TARDIS. After all, he owed his ability to feel again, to laugh again, to be emotionally functional for Sherlock when he came back, to the mad time traveler with the crazy hair.  
  
But he never threw out the suit, either.  
  
  
  
  
  
 **  
**


End file.
